The Day That Never Comes
by RemyMcKwakker
Summary: He doesn't realize it until it's too late, but Frank had already died the day Fenton killed Joe. ONESHOT. Title taken from the Metallica song.


**My first Hardy Boys fic. It's based on the Undercover Brothers series. Enjoy.**

* * *

The man raises his gun, points it at Joe's head. Joe has his back to him – he's fighting off the sidekick – and so does not see.

But Frank does. He sees it in high definition, crystal clear, and he screams.

"JOE, LOOK OUT!"

But it's too late, and the bang is the loudest he's heard.

* * *

There is blood all over his shirt, but it's not his. Joe is limp in his arms, and he is screaming for an ambulance, for help, for Mom and Dad, for Joe, for a miracle. Joe cannot die. His rash, impulsive, brave little brother cannot die.

* * *

And he doesn't. At least, not technically.

Joe is lying in the bed, surrounded by so much white it makes Frank's eyes hurt. White sheets, white blanket, white walls, white ceiling, white everything. The machines beep and hum and whir and go about their business of keeping Joe alive. The television mounted on the wall is dead.

But Joe is not. He might as well be.

It has been a week, but Joe has not moved. The doctors don't have much hope. It's a miracle that they managed to get the bullet out of Joe's head without killing him, but it's not enough. Frank wants another miracle. He wants his brother back.

Their mission is incomplete, and Frank chooses to let it remain that way. Let the police take care of this for once.

Trudy, Laura and Fenton are heartbroken and miserable, and they do not leave Joe's side. Sometimes Frank wishes that they did. He wants some time alone with Joe so that he can kick some sense into his brother and make him wake up.

* * *

It has been two weeks, and slowly but surely Frank can feel himself dying inside. Joe hasn't moved a single muscle. He is alive on machines and nutrients from IVs. His brain activity isn't promising.

All Frank can do is curse himself for not being able to watch Joe's back. It's his fault this happened, if he'd only moved into the way of the bullet or at least shoved the bastard that did this, Joe would be all right. He'd still be laughing and playing around with Frank, he'd still be there.

Part of him, the logical part, realizes he is being unfair to himself, but Frank cannot bring himself to silence this part. He wants to blame someone, and since the bastard is not around he chooses to blame himself.

And so he curses himself all day, and wishes it was him and not Joe in that hospital bed, silent as death.

* * *

In the middle of the third week the doctor decides to talk to the Hardys. He assembles them all in Joe's room, and looks at them. He is middle-aged and his dark hair is already streaked with gray, and his cold gray eyes and pompous manner add to his asshole image. But he is an excellent doctor and so Frank decides to ignore his ass-ishness.

"I think you must know," begins Dr. Pompous Ass, or as everyone else knows him, Dr. Swann. "Joseph's condition is critical."

"Joe," corrects Frank automatically. His brother had always hated being called Joseph.

Pompous Ass spares Frank a contemptuous look – one that doesn't faze the teenager – and continues. "Joseph's condition is critical and to be quite honest we do not expect him to live."

Laura begins crying quietly, and Fenton puts an arm around her. Frank feels numb inside. Trudy is the only one listening to the doctor with some trace of composure. "There are a few options you have to consider, at this stage," Pompous Ass tells them. "Have you ever heard of euthanasia?"

Laura gasps, and Fenton and Trudy are now staring incredulously at the doctor. Frank for his part, has risen from his seat, and is towering over the diminutive Pompous Ass. "You will _not_ even think about it," he snarls at the doctor, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury. "I don't care what your arguments are. I don't care if you think he's never going to make it. I don't care about anything that you think, actually. You will _not_ kill my brother."

"Your brother is already dead, young man," Pompous Ass declares haughtily, not at all discouraged by Frank's reaction. "Look at him. He would have died long ago if it wasn't for all these machines."

"I don't care," retorts Frank.

"It will also be much too expensive to keep him alive like this," insists the doctor.

"I don't care," repeats Frank. At this moment it is just him and Joe and this midget asshole, and his parents and aunt have melted into the background somewhere. He can no longer hear them crying.

"What are you going to do about it?" the doctor asks, his face almost a sneer.

"I'll manage," answers Frank through gritted teeth. His fists are curled so tightly his nails are digging into his palms. "It's not your problem."

"Ah, but it is," says Pompous Ass. "This ward might be needed for other cases. Your brother is not the only person in the world."

"He is, for me," Frank tells him. Pompous Ass just smirks and his hand reaches towards the plug hooked into the electricity supply that gives life to machines that live for Joe –

"NO!" shouts Frank, and he pounces. His fist stops an inch from the asshole's face, and he feels a tug at the back of his shirt. It is his father, holding him back.

"Enough, son," he says, grim determination on his tear-streaked face. He turns to the doctor once he has made sure Frank won't kill him. "Doctor, we need some time. We cannot make a decision of this magnitude in just a few minutes."

The asshole nods sympathetically, as if he understands, and leaves with his nose in the stratosphere.

* * *

It has been four weeks, and Frank overhears something he was not meant to.

He was asleep with his head near Joe's, his hand over his brother's. Their whispering woke him up, and he does his best to feign sleep as he strains to listen to them.

"...as much as I hate it, he's right," Fenton is saying. "We've got to think about it."

"I can't, Fenton," Laura whispers in reply. "He's my baby. I can't."

Frank's heart stops as he realizes they are talking about Joe. He wants to get up and scream some sense into them but he chooses to pretend for a little while more, to hear what they've got to say.

"Have hope, Fenton," Trudy is saying.

"For how much longer?" retorts Fenton. "It's been four weeks, Trudy. This is it for him."

"No, it isn't," Laura insists. "He'll make it, Fenton. We just have to give him time."

"Laura, this isn't just a scraped knee or a broken arm," Fenton says, gently but firmly. "You heard the man – he's not going to wake up. What do we have to gain by keeping him alive this way?"

"What do we have to lose?" Laura shoots back, and her voice is steady. She is ready to argue.

Fenton sighs. It is the sigh of a broken, desparate man, but try as he might Frank cannot feel sorry for his father. "Laura, Trudy," he says. "Listen to me. Joe is gone. I'm sorry, but it's true. I wish it was me, but it's not. Frank wishes it was him, but it's not. There is nothing we can do. It's cruel to keep him alive like this, when he's already got both feet and one arm in the grave. It's cruel for him, and for us, and for Frank. We've got to let him go."

This is too much for Frank, and he jumps up, eyes blazing. "No!" he yells. "What is wrong with you?" he asks his shell-shocked father.

"Frank, listen to me –" Fenton begins, but Frank cuts him off.

"No," he says. "Don't, Dad. Please. I can't believe –" His voice catches in his throat, and his eyes are full of tears. "I can't believe _you're_ giving up, Dad."

"I'm not giving up," Fenton argues. "I'm doing what I have to."

Frank laughs, a bitter, mirthless sound. "No, Dad," he says, his voice hard. "You're doing what is easy."

His father's slap is unexpected, and it leaves Frank reeling. "You think this is easy for me?" shouts Fenton. "You think it's great fun for me to pull the plug on my son's life? What's wrong with _you_, Frank? What happened to the reasonable, intelligent boy I knew?"

Looking his father right in the eye, Frank answers, "He died, Dad. Right along with his brother."

Fenton is speechless. Laura and Trudy are too shocked to even cry. Frank does not regret a word he said. They want to kill his brother. That makes them his enemy, even if they're his family.

And then Fenton walks out, without a word or a look towards his son. Laura and Trudy get up too, and as Laura leaves she whispers to Frank, "I'm sorry."

* * *

They visit less after that. Fenton is apologetic and guilty for hitting Frank, but Frank is indifferent and quiet when they are around. Eventually his behavior discourages them so much they reduce their visits to once a week or so.

Which is fine by Frank. He can spend more time alone with Joe, now.

Sometimes he talks to his brother. "Come on, Joe, enough is enough. Wake up. Seriously, Joe, come on. They won't kill you, I promise. I won't let them. Joooooeeeeeeeeeee – if you don't wake up right now I'll start calling you Joseph ..."

Sometimes he prays and bargains with God. "Please make him wake up, oh God please, you can take me afterwards, just please don't take him, he's too young, he's too precious to too many people... or you know what, take the moron who did this to him, because I'm not sure how Mom and Dad will treat him if I'm not around, they did try to kill him after all..."

But most times, he just sits quietly and holds Joe's hand, hoping it is enough to guide his brother back home.

* * *

It has been six months, and Frank has literally not left the hospital even once.

Joe is still the same, but Frank cannot bring himself to let go of that faint shard of hope that his brother will come back to him. His family visits even less, and when they do he does not talk to them. They tried to kill what he holds most precious, and he cannot, will not, forgive them for that.

The police did not catch the person who hurt Joe. He slipped away, and Frank knows he should feel bad but he can't, no matter how hard he tries. If he had stayed to bring down the bastard then Joe would have died and what would Frank have done then?

Lately the nurses – they're so pretty that Frank feels a pang when he looks at them, because he knows Joe would have liked to check them out – have been hinting to Frank that he should leave for a little while, go out and see the sky again. But Frank does not. Even going to the bathroom or getting food feels like a betrayal, and he cannot bear to leave Joe's side. What if Joe wakes up when Frank is out, and gets scared when he sees he's all alone? Or what if he–?

Frank prefers not to complete that thought. Joe will make it though. He has to. For both their sakes.

* * *

The seventh month is September, and it rains. Joe loved the rain, Frank remembers, and realizes he cannot resist. He has to go out, has to leave Joe's side for a few minutes, because the rain will help him be closer to his brother.

He kisses Joe's forehead and whispers, "I'll be back in a few, bro. Don't go anywhere."

Joe does not respond.

Frank leaves the room and goes out into the hospital courtyard. He is immediately drenched, but he welcomes it. He feels like it's washing away his pain, like it's helping him fill the black hole inside of him. He closes his eyes and can almost hear Joe, from three years ago when Joe was fifteen and he'd just turned sixteen.

"_It's raining, Frank!"_

"_Yes, Joe, I can see that," Frank replies good-naturedly, looking at Joe from the top of his book._

_Joe bounces over to him, excited. "Let's go out, Frank!"_

"_No," says Aunt Trudy at once, coming into the room. "No going out in the rain. You'll get sick."_

"_Sick! Sick! Sick!" calls Playback the parrot from his perch._

"_Come on, Trudy," Laura says with a smile. "It's just a little rain."_

"_We promise we won't get sick!" says Joe, his most winning smile plastered to his face. "Right, Frankie? Right?"_

"_Right! Right! Right!" Playback, as usual, cannot resist from contributing to the conversation._

_Frank sighs, and puts down his book. "Yes, all right, Joe."_

_And Aunt Trudy sighs too. "Well, if you must."_

_Joe lets out a delighted whoop, grabs Frank's hand and pulls him outside, ignoring his half-hearted yells of protest. They play in the rain for an hour, splashing each other and just basically being little kids again. Frank hasn't felt this alive in ages._

_Sure enough, they are sick and bedridden the next day. Aunt Trudy walks around with the 'I-told-you-so' look on her face, but neither of the boys regret it. And really, Trudy doesn't either._

Frank wonders sadly where those happy people went. His parents and aunt are strangers now. Of course, he isn't the same person either, but at least he knows he's stuck with Joe instead of abandoning him. Instead of trying to kill him.

The rain begins to dwindle and eventually stops, but Frank doesn't want to go inside just yet. He needs some time away from all the whiteness and death, some time to himself so he can think. He finds a tree and he sits in its shade, and soon finds himself drifting away to happier times and places, to Joe's laughter and innocence.

* * *

It's dark when he wakes with a start. His watch tells him it's 8 PM. He wonders why no one woke him.

_Joe!_ he realizes with a pang. He left his brother all alone for so long. What if–?

He scrambles to his feet and runs back into the hospital, oblivious to the fact that he is soaking wet and earning dirty looks from the janitors because he is messing up the clean, shiny floor. He races to Joe's room and bursts in, exclaiming, "I'm sorry, Joe, I didn't mean to take so long –"

But the room is empty. There is no Joe.

His heart sputters to a stop. Where is Joe? In a blind panic, he turns and begins running down the hall towards the nurses' station. Abruptly he hits something hard and is kissing the ground. He can taste blood inside his mouth.

"What the hell?" he mutters, getting to his feet and wiping his lip with his sleeve.

Fenton looks at him, his face expressionless. "Oh, there you are, Frank."

Laura and Trudy are not there, but Frank does not care at the moment. "Where's Joe?" he demands.

"I was coming to talk to you about that," Fenton says, looking perturbed. Frank waits, his arms crossed and his eyes on his father's face.

"Well?" he presses, when his father doesn't speak.

Fenton sighs. "Perhaps it's better you sit down, Frank."

Frank has a sick feeling in his gut now. "Why, Dad? Where'd Joe?"

"Frank..." Fenton runs a hand through his thinning hair. "Frank, Joe's dead."

Frank's world spins on its axis and his heart forgets its function. "No," he says. "No, Dad, no."

Fenton nods. He looks miserable. "I'm sorry, Frank," he says gently. His eyes are moist.

"Dad, you're lying," Frank says, feeling the ground under his feet shudder and quake.

Abruptly, Fenton turns on his heels. "Follow me," he says, and begins walking down the hall. Almost hyperventilating, Frank follows.

"Where are we going?"

"To see Joe."

Hope flares up inside Frank. Maybe this is some sick joke, or a mistake, and Joe is alive after all. However, this hope is killed when Fenton next speaks. "Frank, you do know what happened, right?"

"No," Frank answers, knowing he doesn't want to know. He refuses to let his brain put two and two together and figure it out.

"Frank, I gave them permission," Fenton says. "I let them do it."

Frank sways on his feet as his world blurs a little. "No," he whispers, feeling himself die slowly. It can't be true, it just can't, what father would do that to his own son? "No, Dad, please tell me that's not true."

Fenton's silence confirms Frank's fears, and he realizes the presence of a boulder lodged in his throat. He cannot breathe, he cannot think, because his brother has just died and oh God, how is he going to live now?

But his feet keep working, and he walks, zombie-like, after his father, hating and cursing everyone in sight but especially himself. How could he have let this happen? How could he have left Joe's side for so long? It's all his fault, he knows.

Fenton stops at the door to the morgue, and glances over his shoulder to see if Frank is still there. Frank just stands and stares at the floor, tears dripping off his face and splashing over his faded Converse. Steeling himself, he walks after his father into the morgue, the logical part of his brain telling him it's the last time he's ever going to see his brother.

Joe could easily just be sleeping. He still looks the same as the past six months, but there is a certain kind of peace on his face that Frank cannot describe. He's almost smiling.

He cannot help himself; Frank breaks down and launches himself at his brother, holding Joe's body and crying into his hair, begging him to come back, to not leave him all alone in the world. He sobs and begs and pleads, he clutches his brother to himself like holding him close will bring him back, like any moment he'll sit up and tell Frank to get a grip on himself. Behind them, Fenton stands and watches, his face passive but his eyes wet and his hands trembling.

He cannot believe he just killed his own son. He cannot believe he just killed both his sons.

* * *

It has been a month, and Frank has not seen his father since. He moved out and now shares a bachelor flat with some college student, but instead of going to college himself he just sits in his room all day and stares at the wall ahead. He remembers he didn't graduate high school, but he can't bring himself to care.

His roommate comes home from college, greets him and then hands him a newspaper, knowing that Frank wants to know what's going on in the outside world. He busies himself with dinner, while Frank peruses the paper.

A particular headline blares out at him, and he sits up straight. He reads the report at the speed of light, and then grabs a nearby backpack and begins throwing his stuff into it. His roommate watches him, surprised, and Frank says, "I'm leaving, and I don't know when I'll be back. Or if I'll be back at all." He withdraws a wad of cash from his pocket. "This is the rent for this month. Feel free to throw all my stuff out. Oh, and if my parents ask tell them I died."

He leaves without a goodbye. The only person he cares for is Joe, and Joe is dead.

Fleetingly he wonders if he should drop by at his parents' place and leave a note. He realizes that if they see him they'll want to talk to him, and he doesn't want to have to hear their excuses, hear about how they felt he needed to move on, and Joe needed to go, and how it was better this way. He doesn't want to see them ever again. They killed Joe.

* * *

He is not Frank Hardy, the intelligent one, anymore. There is no such thing as rational Frank, reasonable Frank or even humane Frank. There is just angry Frank, and vengeful Frank, and also a little bit of dead-inside Frank.

He catches up with the bastard, that _fucker_, just outside of Bayport, and takes him by surprise. For once luck favors him and he watches with cold eyes as his hands squeeze the trigger of the snatched gun over and over again, as he empties round after round into the head of his brother's killer.

The bastard is finally dead, and Frank feels a searing, angry pleasure rise up inside him. So this is what revenge feels like.

He doesn't hear the footsteps behind him until it's too late. The last thing he hears is a loud bang and then his world goes black.

* * *

The police tells them it didn't hurt him, and that he'd managed to take down the killer before being shot. They tell them he's in a better place, he's with his brother now, but Fenton, Laura and Trudy Hardy are inconsolable. They have now lost both of their sons, even though (if they are being brutally honest with themselves) they'd lost Frank right along with Joe, and then again the moment they considered pulling the plug on Joe.

Frank is buried right next to Joe. Fenton visits every weekend, and each time he breaks down over their graves and begs them for forgiveness. Laura doesn't talk anymore. She has found a new best friend, alcohol. Trudy has become obsessive about her housework so that she doesn't have to think about the boys. Even Playback the parrot has stopped speaking, and his feathers have begun falling out. No one goes into the boys' rooms. The loss is still too fresh.

_It is autumn, and eighteen-year-old Joe is tugging his brother by the hand. "Come on, Frank, it's raining!"_

"_I'm coming, I'm coming," grumbles Frank, but does not pull his hand out of Joe's. "I don't see what's so special about rain, anyway."_

"_You're such a killjoy," whines Joe. "Can't you just not complain for once?"_

"_Seriously," Frank says. "What is it with rain and you?"_

_Joe stops dragging Frank and looks him in the eyes, considering. "Rain's, well, it's new," he says finally. "It makes everything so new and clean. It sort of washes away the evil, you know?"_

_And Joe doesn't know it, but yes, Frank knows. He follows his brother outside and they play in the rain until they're drenched. They don't worry about colds and the 'flu and getting a change of clothes because they're now in a place where nothing can hurt them, ever again._

* * *

__**Reviews are like Nutella.**

-**Peace**


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